


It's What We Call The Truth

by butterflyknifle



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, Identity Issues, Relationship Issues, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflyknifle/pseuds/butterflyknifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chopper goes down, mid-heist, with Geoff in it. The fallout isn't pretty, and none of them are phoenixes.<br/>That is to say, it's unlikely any of them rise from the ashes. Or, if they do, we'll call it a goddamn miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's What We Call The Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryanhaywire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanhaywire/gifts).



> A (very late) birthday gift for my dearest [ace](http://naervaez.tumblr.com). Her birthday was almost a month ago, and here I am finishing this fic at a solid 3.5k words of 'fuck you'. <3

_I love you. I'll come back to you soon. Don't worry._

\--

"It's been four fucking days," Jack says, anxious and angry. The weight of the world has fallen onto her shoulders this week, with Geoff's disappearance and three out of four of her remaining crew members out of commission. "I am not force-feeding him again."

"Let me do it then," Ryan suggests, easy and gentle. "You need a break. A nap, maybe. And some tea."

That... actually sounds really nice. Jack nods hesitantly.

"Okay," Ryan says. "Go sleep."

\--

"He's heartless, Jack!" Gavin yells, eyes red and puffy from crying. "He didn't care about Geoff, he never did! None of it meant anything!"

Ryan can picture how Michael would react - explosively. But he hasn't spoken a word in the last fortnight and it appears that trend is continuing.

"He can't even deny it-"

"Gavin," Jack finally says, having found the words she was trying to say. "Everyone mourns differently. He was as much Michael's boyfriend as he was yours. Michael's grieving process is just not the same as yours."

\--

"Michael?" Ryan says. "Baby, I need you to eat."

Michael shakes his head.

"Michael," Ryan says again. Michael just looks at him, deadened eyes and pallid complexion. His face looks gaunt.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity stretching out between them, Michael lifts a shaking hand and signs, not hungry.

"I know you're not, sweetheart," Ryan says. He's close to begging, now, which under any other circumstance might have even made him laugh - the Mad King doesn't beg. Yet here he is, begging his starving boyfriend to just eat, please darling, I can't let you kill yourself. "Think of it as a personal favor to me."

There's another long silence. Michael, usually so open and easy to read, has become shuttered and closed off. Ryan can't even formulate a guess as to what he's thinking anymore.

Eventually Michael reaches out and takes the half of a granola bar that Ryan has offered him.

\--

When Ray finally wakes up, four days after Michael willingly eats for the first time since Geoff's disappearance, he is fucking pissed.

"Let him see me," he demands of Jack, who shakes her head.

"It's not a great idea, Ray-"

"Great. Who the fuck are you again?" Now he's just deliberately being obnoxious. "Since when do you get to dictate what Michael does or doesn't do?"

"Ray-"

"Look, I get it, okay?" Ray interrupts. "He's too busy fawning all over-"

"Geoff is dead."

There's a long silence, several expressions flashing across Ray's face and Jack waiting with bated breath.

"Cool," Ray says at last. He is definitely even more not pleased than he was three minutes ago, which is saying something. "Why didn't you tell me this, like, half an hour ago?"

"I didn't think-"

"Clearly."

"Ray-"

Ray closes his eyes and pretends sleep has taken him. Jack can tell that this isn't true, but she lets it go.

\--

She only has so much of her family left, after all.

\--

The second Ray's given clearance to walk, he walks straight out of the apartment without a word and doesn't return for three days. When he does come back, he's followed by a cold aura and a count of sixteen fatalities, fourteen injuries, and ten wedding rings collected in his pocket.

"Cool," he says when Jack berates him for disappearing. It's all he says, too, when Gavin tells him he can't turn into another Ryan, collecting bloody rings like that-

When Ryan asks about it, Ray just shrugs. "They were luckier than we are," he says, and Ryan doesn't ask anymore.

\--

The truth is, they're all just replacing each other. Jack took Geoff's place and Ryan took Jack's. Where that leaves the rest of them, who fucking knows, but Ray is sick of tension so thick he'd need a weed whacker to cut through it, and he's sick of pretending like everything's okay when it's not.

\--

They don't see much of Jack these days. She has a criminal empire to run. Ryan helps out where he can, but the truth is that Jack and Geoff are really the only ones made for ruling. It's becoming clearer and clearer that Jack can't do it on her own, and it's all Ryan can do to keep the Lads tied down. They may have all fallen together into one messy relationship, but they all know when to cut their losses and get the fuck out of dodge.

Ryan's afraid they're hurtling toward that point all too quickly.

It's laughable, though - the Mad King, the infamous Vagabond, afraid? No, Ryan isn't afraid of anything.

\--

But that's a lie, isn't it? He's afraid, first and foremost, of losing his boys. And Jack. God, he loves Jack. Admires her, too. A little afraid of her, to be sure - she's kept the city effectively pinned down as she locked it back under their control - mostly he's just in love with her.

\--

There are lines. Thin ones, to be sure, but lines nonetheless. He's drawn them carefully a dividing line between the lives he's lived.

He's been the Vagabond and the Mad King and the Skull, he's been a hundred names in a hundred cities. He'd been James, once. He's Ryan now. But they're thin lines, drawn in the sand too close to where the waves will wash them away.

\--

And there are big waves coming. They might even be enough to wash him away too.

\--

“Where are you going?” Ryan asks. It’s soft - he’s not out to control Ray, even if he worries.

“None of your fucking business,” Ray snaps. He’s got his rifle in one hand and a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Funny,” Ryan says. “It looks like you’re trying to run off in the middle of the night.”

“I-” Ray sighs. “If Geoff’s dead, Ryan, what’s keeping me here?”

“Try your four fucking remaining boyfriends,” Ryan says. “Ray, we still love you.”

“Cool,” Ray says. He lifts his empty hand and ticks off on his fingers. “Jack lied to me, Geoff _left_ us, Michael - my best friend - won’t fucking talk to me - What do you have to offer, Ryan? And can you make it good enough to outweigh everything else?”

“Ray, we need you,” Ryan says, calm and rational. His head is spinning. “You - it’s a delicate balance, you know? And you-”

“Delicate balance?” Ray repeats. “Geoff is dead. Fuck your balance.”

Someone coughs in the doorway and Ray and Ryan both turn their heads to look.

“He’s not dead,” Michael says. Ryan’s already dizzy - the shock from hearing Michael’s voice again makes him want to pass out.

Then Jack’s there, flicking on the lights and sighing, rubbing at her eyes and tugging her bathrobe tighter around herself. “What are you all doing up?”

She wakes enough to survey the scene, then adds, “Where are you going, Ray?”

Ray glances toward the door. “Out.”

“Sit down.” Ray sits down.

\--

“He’s not dead,” Michael repeats. Cool. So aside from the whole ‘I am Groot’ trend happening, Michael’s perfectly fine. At least they know his vocal cords aren’t fucked, even if his voice does sound a little hoarse.

“What are you talking about, Michael?” Jack says. “Who’s not dead?”

“Geoff, apparently,” Ryan fills in, raising an eyebrow.

“Michael,” Jack says. “I hate to break this to you, but-”

“He’s not,” Michael insists. Jack looks at Ryan, who just shrugs.

“Tell me how you know,” Jack says, and Michael shuts down. Unresponsive.

“Alright,” Ray says. “I’m leaving.”

“Ray-” Ryan starts.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Haywood,” Ray snaps. “Unlike some people, I know when to cut my losses. This is it, I am not spending another night in Los Santos - I’ll go back to Liberty City if I fucking have to. We’re done, Ryan. The Fake AH Crew is over.”

\--

Three days after Ray leaves, Ryan sits down with Michael in the kitchen.

“Talk to me,” he says, small and desperate. “I don’t care how - say it out loud, sign it, write it down. I don’t care. It feels like I’m talking to a broken comm set, Michael.”

Michael looks at him, just blinks. Ryan signs a small _please_ at him, a last ditch effort.

_If I say it out loud_ , Michael signs with shaking hands, slowly and carefully. _I might forget the sound of his voice_.

“You said he’s not dead,” Ryan points out, almost subconsciously signing the same words he’s speaking.

_He isn’t_.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “Then-?”

“M’sorry,” Michael whispers in probably the smallest voice Ryan has ever heard him use. “I can’t-”

Ryan hugs him, drags him across the couch to hold him close, peppering kisses into his hair. “Sweetheart, we don’t expect anything from you.”

“I let him go,” Michael says, still whispering, voice still rough from disuse. “I _let_ him _go_ , Rye-”

“Baby,” Ryan soothes gently, rubbing circles into Michael’s back. “You know Geoff, maybe better than any of the rest of us. You know that once he sets his mind to something, it can’t be changed.”

“Ray - he thought _I_ killed him?”

“Ray wasn’t thinking straight,” Ryan murmurs. “None of us were.”

“Are we now?” And the thing is, Ryan doesn’t know the answer. He’s not sure he ever did, because when it comes down to it the Vagabond is the one with all the talent, but _Ryan_ is supposed to have the answers. Ryan doesn’t have them, this time.

“I don’t know.”

\--

Michael does better, has started eating more. It’s an improvement, at least on that end of their very rocky relationship.

They haven’t heard from Ray since he’d left, not that any of them expected to. Gavin, though - Ryan’s worried about him. He’s been drifting since Michael started talking - the first time, with the ‘he’s not dead’ mantra.

Actually, Ryan hasn’t seen him or Jack at all today. They’d both been gone since before he’d woken up this morning.

Ryan sets a bowl of pasta in front of Michael, kissing the top of his head gently. “I’m gonna call Jack.”

“Might be busy,” Michael says.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” though he’s not sure he means it. “Can’t I miss my girlfriend?”

“Who, Gavin?” Normally, Ryan might laugh. Normally. Today he can’t.

Instead he leans in, hooking a finger in the collar of Michael’s - _Geoff’s_ \- shirt, pulling it carefully back to peer down it at the binder Michael already has on underneath it.

“Take this off,” Ryan says.

“No,” Michael says.

“Michael,” Ryan sighs. “I love you to death, I really do. But for the love of god, take it off. It’s not safe to wear all the time, _especially_ when you’ve just been starving yourself for who knows how long.”

“I have not been-”

“ _Michael_.” He’s already pulling out his phone and dialing. “Hey, Jack. Is Gavin with you?”

“Yeah,” says Jack, though she sounds antsy. “Listen, Haywood, I’m sure this can wait.”

_Haywood_. Right. Jack’s in the middle of a business meeting. With Gavin of all people, though?

“Sorry,” Ryan breathes. “I’ll call back when I can. I love you.”

“Of course,” Jack says, clipped, and hangs up without another word.

“Til death do us fucking part,” Michael mutters, and Ryan can’t even fight the cynicism welling up in them both.

\--

“Why’re you so sure he’s alive?” Jack asks, the first time she’s sat down with them at dinner since the heist.

“I saw him,” Michael says, stabbing at a piece of potato. “After the crash.”

“Your crash or his?” Ryan mutters.

“He said - he told me he had to leave. And that he’d be back soon.”

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Jack asks. She thoroughly regrets not having sat down with Michael before now. “God, Michael-”

“I want them back,” Michael says. His speech patterns sound, these days, more similar to a child’s than a grown adult’s. “All of them.”

“Gavin’s still here,” Jack says, and Michael shakes his head.

“I haven’t seen him in three days,” he says.

“He’s been busy-”

“ _Stop_ trying to defend him.” Michael pushes away from the table. “Sorry.”

Jack stands up at the same time Michael does. “Michael.”

“Please excuse me,” Michael murmurs, and Jack is startled enough that Michael slips away with no more protest.

Jack turns to face Ryan. “Get them back here,” she orders. Ryan already has his phone out. “I don’t care how. You do _not_ stop until all three of them are sitting in this room, do you understand?”

Ryan nods solemnly.

“We have to fix this, Ryan,” she sighs. “I’ve never seen a heist go _so_ wrong before.”

\--

_“Police are reporting no survivors of the crash that took place on the Los Santos Freeway last night near the Vinewood Racetrack-”_

“Turn that shit off,” comes an exhausted voice from the front door. Michael whips around, nearly falling over himself as he vaults over the back of the couch.

“Geoff,” he says.

“That’s me,” Geoff says, smiling. “The one and only.”

“Oh my god.” Michael reaches a hand to Geoff’s side, fingers coming away bloody. “What happened to you?”

“Shot,” Geoff grunts, swaying on his feet. Michael leads him to a bar stool.

“Jack!” he calls out into the apartment. Jack is there in an instant, fussing over Geoff.

“I cannot _believe_ you,” she scolds, already pulling out the first aid kit. “Fuck, I need a knife-”

“Jack,” Geoff says, surprisingly steady. “Breathe.”

“Right,” Jack nods, taking a breath. Michael holds out a knife. “Thanks.”

She runs the knife through Geoff’s shirt, tearing it away. Michael hands her the disinfectant, a clean cloth. She forgets all too often the different strengths and weaknesses of her boys. Michael has the second steadiest hands of all of them.

“It’s gonna sting,” she warns, splashing the liquid over Geoff’s stomach. Geoff hisses, his jaw tightening. She dabs away at the wound. “Okay, Michael-”

Michael hands her a needle, already threaded.

Jack takes it, leaning in. “Do you want any anesthetic?”

Geoff shakes his head, his hand finding Michael’s. “I got this.” Michael swallows, bringing their hands up and brushing his lips across Geoff’s knuckles.

“You got this,” he says. Geoff nods, gritting his teeth. Jack steadies her hand.

\--

“The crash last night was Gavin,” Ryan informs them shortly. Geoff is still on bedrest, so the four of them are lounging around in the guest bedroom. Jack is occupying the desk with her computer, but she’s at least here.

“You’re lying,” Michael says, even though he knows Ryan’s not.

“Wait, back up,” Geoff says. “What crash?”

“When you came in yesterday,” Michael says carefully, like every word is a land mine. “That’s what was on the news.”

“You’re saying that was Gavin?” Geoff frowns. “No, no way. I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you want, Geoff,” Ryan says, settling under the blankets to curl up next to Geoff. “I saw the body.”

\--

Ryan has realized one thing, since Geoff’s return. Well, several things, but one in particular that stands out.

They don’t know how to work as a crew anymore.

They’re not a particularly cohesive unit, down two people, and it’s the first job they’ve actually run in who knows how long - since Geoff’s disappearance, and everyone knows how well that went. Everyone defers to Jack, lets Jack run the show, but it’s all going south. The rival gang, whoever they are, are a lot better equipped than they’d thought they would be.

Ryan tucks, rolls, and lands a rocket launcher to a gas tank. “Nice,” he mutters. Across the runway, he sees Michael jerk at seemingly nothing, and then he’s swearing in Ryan’s ear.

“Motherfucking son of a _whore_ ,” he yells to no one in particular. He lifts his gun to fire at the roof of the hangar and only then does Ryan see it. The smallest flash of hot pink.

“Boys,” Jack says to them. “Fall back. I have evac en route, 30 seconds point Delta. Do you copy?”

“Copy,” Ryan says. Radio silence from Michael.

“Michael?” Jack says. Ryan’s still watching him, one last calculated bullet at the rooftop.

“I’ll get him,” Ryan finally says after no response. “Just two minutes.”

“You have one,” Jack says, clipped. Ryan will be there.

\--

“That fucking traitor!” Michael cries out when Ryan locks an arm solidly around his waist. “Fucking - Ryan-”

“I know,” Ryan grunts, hoisting Michael up and carrying him to a car, any car. “Just keep shooting, baby. They move, they die, understand?”

Then they’re in a car, Ryan’s slamming on the gas pedal, they’re going, going, gone.

\--

“Fuck the evac,” Ryan tells Jack once the gunfire dies down, once it’s just him and Michael alone on the freeway gunning it out of town. “We’re going up Chiliad.”

“Ryan,” Jack sighs.

“We’ll be home,” Ryan promises. “We will. We always are.”

\--

It’s hard to trust, these days. Because what are their options, anymore? Geoff, who left them for months with no word. Ray, the reason for the blood currently staining Ryan’s palms, Michael’s favorite shirt, the backseat of the car. Or Gavin. Who, well.

Jack would be safe, but Ryan’s afraid they’ve grown apart too much.

Ryan’s afraid of a lot of things, these days.

Luckily, the Vagabond isn’t afraid of anything. He slips his mask on steady and drives.

\--

At the top of the mountain Ryan rips apart Michael’s shirt, repurposes it for bandages and wraps the fabric around Michael’s torso. He’s not losing too much blood, hasn’t lost too much blood. It’s good, but it also means he’s not delirious when he speaks again.

“Do you know Geoff?”

“Of course I know Geoff,” Ryan answers, knotting the fabric into place. The top of the mountain is cold and windy, but Michael insists on sitting outside so Ryan carries him outside.

“I mean,” Michael continues once they’re both settled. “Really know him.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Ryan says, trying to decide what Michael’s asking.

“With all my heart,” Michael says. He looks at Ryan, looking smaller than he’s probably ever been. (Which is a lie, but honestly who needs to know the truth?) “That doesn’t mean he’s the same person.”

Ryan knows what he means. Of course he does. It doesn’t make the truth any easier to stomach, that none of them are the same anymore. That Michael still doesn’t eat or talk the way he used to. That Ryan can feel the Vagabond slipping away from him in the light of his mission of the last few months, in the light of _Michael, Michael, Michael_. That Jack is closer, these days, to Geoff’s tone of stony and cruel than she is to her own brand of love and fierce protectiveness.

That Geoff hasn’t kissed any of his datemates in the week and a half he’s been back.

\--

“So what do we do?” Ryan asks, when the sky begins to turn pink on the horizon.

“The way I see it,” Michael shrugs. “We have two options. Option one: we go back to Geoff and Jack, right now, and we run the Fake AH and we try to fall in love with each other all over again and we try to make this work.”

Ryan is already weighing pros and cons. He has never done second chances, never hovered in a city this long.

“Going back means confronting all of this,” Michael gestures, “again. Every day of our lives.”

But Ryan already knows that.

\--

“Option two,” Michael continues. “Is we could just. Leave.”

He points east, into the rising orange. Ryan watches, as if he could change his destiny by staring too long. But, he thinks, if he believed in destiny he’d say his was Michael.

“We don’t have to look back. Ever again. Start over somewhere else.”

“We could do whatever we wanted,” Ryan agrees. “Tell no one, _be_ no one.”

Michael smiles.

\--

“I don’t do second chances,” Ryan says to Michael, unsure which option he’s referring to.

“I don’t do redemption,” Michael tells him.

\--

Four hours later they’re four hours out of Los Santos, out of San Andreas, in Michael’s shiny chrome Adder, and Michael’s blasting the top 40s as loud as he can and rejecting every one of Geoff’s calls as they come, every hour on the hour like clockwork and he sings a little louder to make up for it.

Four hours later and they’re four hours closer to freedom, to a second chance, to redemption, to starting over.


End file.
